There is nothing more beautiful than watching an innocent angel fall apart at my sinful actions. I'm going to ruin her.
"Augustine."
And she comes, looking down at me as she does so.
She glows, lighting up the goddamn room. Her feet barely touch t...
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The sun was setting by the time I was driving on Reign's street, and now I remember why Emilio was so mad. He had called me about five times while I was working, so I just know I'm about to get a lecture.
There were some teenagers walking on the other side of the street, and I suddenly felt the need to hurry and park so I could actually be safe.
I checked in all directions before getting out of the car, and I was quick to lock it and then jog across to the house.
They probably have the door locked, so I knock and watch my back as I do. The wind bites at my bare legs, and my work wardrobe doesn't do much to help me.
It's been a good twenty seconds, and I'm still waiting outside. I pull out my phone to text Emilio, but then the door swings open, and my heart stops when I look up.
It's like my lungs freeze because I can't breathe at all as I look down the barrel of the gun. I'm shivering and sweating at the same time, and for only a few seconds, I actually think I'm going to die.
"Fuck, Amorette," it's Eros, and he sounds angry. He's quick to put his gun down, then he grips my arm and yanks me inside, slamming the door behind me. His tattooed hand squeezes my forearm as he forces me away from the window, but he's too quick about it. My instinct kicks in, and I flinch back when he gets too close to me. A wave crashes down, and I realize what just happened.
I'm scared and I'm shaking. I'm afraid that death was just right in front of me. But when I see his eyes staring down at me with an unknown emotion, my anxiety disappears for a second.
"Dammit, Ávila-" he cuts himself off. My eyes watch the angry man, and they latch onto the gun in his other hand. The gun that was aimed at my head. My throat swells, but I swallow it down. Goosebumps litter my body.
He thinks I'm weak.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, "I should have called." I'm staring at the ground like it just told me its biggest secret.
I don't know why I'm sorry, I just feel like something is my fault.
What did I do?
He's too close to me, though. He smells like home.
"Fuck, Amorette," he exhales. I think I can hear his heartbeat. It's slow, and it's quiet. But it's there, and it's keeping him alive. He pulls my head up, his large hands cupping my face. The skin of his palms is rough and scarred, but they feel so perfect where they are.
"I didn't mean..." he mutters, gray eyes watching me cry. Gray eyes watching me get weaker. His gaze is different than usual. He's treating me differently than usual. "Amorette."
